Chapter 16: Horses of the Wasteland
Marhal rode alongside Rebella. Whether its owner had died or abandoned it, they had stealthily approached a horse grazing in the wasteland and seized the reins.
To meet every flag owner around the city, there wasn't enough time—and the distances were considerable. They'd managed fine without horses so far, but riding was the norm for travel in the West. Some pioneer villages even managed horses as communal assets.
"Quite the fine mount. For a beast like this to be wandering without an owner..."
"Expensive even in the capital, right?"
"Fearless-looking, with solid muscle. The kind of thing knight orders or high knights would ride."
"That's why it's pricey?"
"Sell it, and you could buy a house on the outskirts of the capital."
"Search every inch of land around here, and you'd find at least two hundred like this."
Two hundred? How much would that be worth?
She was greedy if you asked whether she had greed, and a gambler if you asked whether she liked gambling. You didn't take on Bayola's bodyguard duty without that mindset.
Coldly speaking, Bayola had almost no chance of becoming emperor. Above her were three brothers hailed as geniuses, and even without them, imperial kin were cruel by nature. When one became emperor, they'd hack off the limbs of the others.
Being a woman, Bayola would likely be shipped off as a concubine to some foreign royalty. At least that meant survival. The worst was a purge wiping out the imperial family and their retainers.
Rebella had taken on the role of Bayola's direct guard, risking all that. The greater the danger, the bigger the payoff if she succeeded.
Gulp.
Rebella swallowed hard. Those horses out there were all money. She had some coin in her pocket, but more was always better.
"How many can we take back with us?"
"Not happening. There are professionals for that."
"Professionals?"
"People thinking the same thing have been around since the Union formed. Remember that good horse earlier? Didn't drop from the sky, did it? Didn't sprout from the ground?"
"...The Union."
"Right. Unless it's some legendary steed, no horse costs more than land. Rich folks are ready to pay fortunes for territory. They sell horses, collect the abandoned ones, sell those again. Original buyers complain? Tough luck. In the West, might makes right."
A chill ran down Rebella's spine at the thought of the vast hand enveloping the West. She knew the background of the Union's formation and their widespread influence. But the reality far exceeded her imagination.
"The whole West is the Union's plaything."
"Looks that way, but not quite. Endless debates if you dig in. Just know the landlords aren't sitting idle."
The conversation lapsed. Every time a decent horse came into view, Rebella stared longingly, smacking her lips. No need to take them all—just three to sell would mean comfortable living for a while, even at a discount.
Ahead, a flag and its owner's group came into sight. Spotting him just as he spotted them, they drew weapons.
"Still sure it was right for just us two to come?"
"Easier with Strekl, sure. Flash that full plate armor, and most folks tuck tail. But if you, Bayola, and Marin stayed and a fight broke out?"
"No fight."
"Bayola's default is looking down on people. Marin's a hot-blooded youth hating the world. Sure one wrong word won't set her off?"
"...No."
Bayola was imperial royalty. She couldn't be underestimated by anyone but the emperor, nor did she need to read the room. But now, she had to.
All her protectors were gone. Yet habits ingrained over a lifetime don't vanish overnight. Bayola wasn't reckless enough to spout off carelessly before the dispossessed, but the arrogance born of her blood wasn't something she could simply shed.
'Hope nothing went wrong.'
Rebella trusted Bayola. She trusted Bayola, but not the environment that raised her.
Please, no irreparable damage.
Bayola was imperial royalty. The Muet 'Kingdom' boasted three centuries of history, but the Muet 'Empire' less than one. And its benchmark was always the Bachea Empire, with half a millennium behind it.
No wonder the Muet Empire obsessed over history and prestige.
Bayola had grown up in that world. The easiest way to build one's dignity was to tear down others'. Refined folk might call it vulgar. But power turned vulgarity into elegance, insight from lofty wisdom.
With Marhal and Rebella gone, silence hung between the three left behind. From different regions, classes, cultures—few shared topics.
It was suffocating. Marin glared at Strekl and Bayola. Strekl cleared nearby corpses. Each time he drove his scavenged shovel into the earth, it gouged a hole three times its size.
Of the three, Bayola struggled most with the quiet. Sycophants always surrounded her; after leaving the palace, Rebella trailed her.
"Hey. What was he like back then?"
"Who?"
"Marhal, that commoner."
"Commoner? You dare call him—!"
Marhal was Marin's idol. Her benefactor, and her grandmother's. She wasn't patient.
Long flight and street life had taught her one rule: the patient one gets screwed. Whether noble mercy or knightly honor, they saw it as weakness to exploit.
Even her attitude toward nobles and knights was like that. For a girl and old folk driven east by demons stealing their home, life wasn't life.
If the Holy Empire's god existed, it was something unspeakable in human tongues.
Marin shed patience. Forgot endurance.
By the time Strekl turned at her footsteps, she was upon them. Her hand shot for Bayola's throat. Bayola snatched it, twisted, and slammed her down.
'Princess knows basic self-defense, huh.'
Strekl dropped the shovel and moved to intervene. Marin, using the momentum from her fall like before, sprang up. Her eyes gleamed unnaturally red.
"...Berserker."
A type of superhuman, more common in mercenaries than knights. Some who piled up histories of blood and death lost control at the sight, turning murderous.
Berserkers, hurling themselves into slaughter's history, gained inhuman strength without losing reason entirely.
Marin had fought bandits, trying not to kill. She'd seemed inexperienced then, but berserker potential meant the opposite.
'Not inexperienced in killing... she'd killed too many.'
Excess blood triggered rampage; she'd lose her way too.
One fears blood, so mustn't see it. One craves it, so mustn't see it.
'Hard to gather such opposites. Subdue before she draws those relic daggers.'
Berserkers boosted physically. She could match a superhuman knight now. With daggers? Even Strekl lacked confidence in unscathed victory.
Irrational Marin lunged at Bayola. Strekl wedged in. His fists hammered thigh, gut, side in sequence.
Marin flew sideways, clutching her belly, gasping. Her red eyes glared, but the glow had visibly faded.
"Another pup needing to learn body control. Be my disciple. I'll ensure you never flop so pathetically again."
"...I already learned."
"Week at most. Some body training and sword arcs. Right?"
Spot on. Not even a week—three days. A thief couldn't impart superhuman training to kids in that time, no matter how great.
"Not ditching what you learned. Build on it. You'll get it later."
"Learn, and I can kill you?"
"Surpassed my master a decade ago. Up to you."
Marin's eyes normalized. She squatted. Bayola mirrored her directly ahead.
Strekl chuckled inwardly, not aloud.
'Total opposites, yet alike.'
Hard to assemble such a mismatched crew anywhere.
Marhal and Rebella pressed on. Their horses quickened at the group's hostility. The steeds sensed killing intent, growing agitated.
"Before persuading them, one thing."
"What?"
"Your plan's full of holes. I can think of countermeasures off the top."
"Mm, productive talk's good. Shoot."
"Core is invalidating city flags. So bring tons, plant everywhere. Over a hundred in the city, hundred flags ready. That covers your whole map."
"One-dimensional view, yeah."
"One-dimensional? Me?"
"Pretending otherwise, but you're imperial nobility. Flaunting superiority."
Grind.
Rebella gnashed her teeth.
"You have a knack for needling. Note: I despise such folk most."
"Self-loathing? Or parents?"
"Don't make me draw. And that's not why we're here."
"Fine, next time."
"Next time?"
"Truth is, I don't like the Empire much either. Hate it, actually. Deeply. Like all Westerners."
Hate, hate, hate. Skin-flaying, bone-burning, soul-crushing hate wouldn't erase it.
Marhal smiled because of promises with damnable humans. That let him be here, but didn't erase the soul-scar.
"Empire's demon response was improper—I admit. Even imperial scholars critique the court. But why that much hate?"
"Live in the West, you'll see. For Empire and Union both. Back: plan's holey? Right and wrong. Those folks'll plug the holes themselves."
The slowed horses reached the flag. Its owner looked mercenary, with a dozen underlings. They leveled crossbows.
"Halt! Closer, and we shoot!"
Duchy tongue, clumsily accented. Rebella instinctively sought Marhal. This clownish linguist would dazzle again.
And he did.
"Here as neighborly talk. Unexpected Easterner here. Hessen region?"
"H-how...?"
"Red tea's fine. Boil subpar leaves with rice water—delicacy. Right?"
Sip...
The man swallowed, salivating at the thought. Crossbows on them lowered.
"What's the business?"
The mercenary asked, tone softened.